


Migraine

by IMAgentMI



Category: Red vs. Blue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:58:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7450429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMAgentMI/pseuds/IMAgentMI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt for the RvB Angst War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Migraine

“Sugar?”  
“No, thank you. This is perfect.”

Donut grit his teeth through a haze of pain and hoped it looked like a smile. Agent Washington had come to Red Base looking for Grif, but came during his mid-afternoon nap. There was nothing to do but to wait, because attempting to wake Grif during a nap never turned out well for anyone involved. Donut’s head was pounding, but he had offered Wash tea anyway out of good manners. He hadn’t expected that he would accept.

“These scones are delicious.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Made them yourself?”

Who the hell else in this fucking cesspool would make them?

“Yes. I did. New recipe I tried. Glad you like them.” 

His words were clipped and pained but Wash didn’t notice. The headache was deepening now, pooling behind one eye and spreading into his teeth.

Wash raised his cup and took a careful sip of hot tea. Donut had the insane urge to throw his tea in Wash’s face, scream at him, do anything to get him to leave just so he can curl up in his bunk with ice packed around his head and neck, popping painkillers and laying with the lights off until everything slowly returns to normal. But Wash isn’t leaving, and the migraine was beginning to affect his perception. Wash became increasingly distorted, his smile turning into an obscene leer, and his skin mottled and melting off his face. Donut gave his head a tiny shake to dispel the hallucination, and regretted it when his stomach lurched.

“The weather is gorgeous today.”

Small talk? His skull was being torn to pieces and Wash wanted to make small talk?

“It’s the same fucking weather. Every fucking day.”

There was something wrong with his voice, with his words, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He is being incredibly polite.

Isn’t he?

Wash was looking at him strangely, but Donut couldn’t read his reaction. He looks alarmed and concerned. Or satisfied and smug? Did they look the same? He can’t remember.

“Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Why wrong? It’s fine. All’s fine” Every word is making him nauseous, and he’d do anything to just make Wash shut up. 

“Do you need me to call someo--” 

He’s cracking apart. Donut stood suddenly, nearly knocking over his chair, teacup in his hand and already pulling back to throw. Wash’s eyes widen, and he’s scrambling backward and...

“Scones!”

Both men froze as Simmons breezed in and grabbed a scone from the plate on the table. “Let me grab a cup - be right back!” He bit off a corner and walked into the kitchen. 

“Donut.” Wash was looking at him intently. “What’s going on?” There was a hint of something more in his look now, not just concern. Fear? No, dread. As though he thinks he knows. Donut knows that he knows.

What was wrong? “You shot me...” It came out as a slur. He felt drunk, his head spinning. 

“... tried to kill me.” He reached out for the table to steady himself and missed the surface on his first try. “You left me for dead!” He wanted to hit him. “Fuck you!” He wanted to see him bleed. He had to force the last words out through clenched teeth. “I wish I could kill you.”

With each outburst, Wash’s shoulders rose and his head dropped as though each words as a physical blow. Donut felt as though an axe had smashed his skull and embedded itself in his brain. He closed his eyes, his fingers gripping handfuls of his own hair and he tried not to whimper. 

He heard a footstep and dragged his eyes back open. Wash had stepped around the table towards him, and Donut pulled back in revulsion. In a smooth motion that suggested he had long planned this moment, Wash removed his sidearm and laid it on the table, followed by a knife. With a deliberateness bordering on grace, Wash knelt before Donut and took a deep breath. 

“Do whatever you feel you need to do. I can't fix this. I can't make it right. Maybe nothing can. Make sure you can live with yourself afterwards but if this is what you want, I'd this is what you need-” Wash took a second steadying breath and lifted his head, back straightening and closed his eyes, “-do whatever you have to.” 

What the fuck is this? Some sort of dramatic demonstration of guilt? This is his twisted way to try and put things right?

Fine. Donut stepped towards the table - 

“What is going on?” Donut turned toward the voice, stumbling slightly. Simmons had returned. He stood, holding his scone and a teacup, looking from the gun and knife to Donut, and then to Wash waiting patiently on his knees.

“Please stay out of this, Simmons.” Wash didn’t open his eyes, but his voice was calm and determined. “This doesn’t concern you. Please, just go.”

Simmons stepped forward. “Donut, I don’t-”

Simmons nearly left his feet when Donut’s punch connected. The teacup smashed as he fell back against the wall, staring in shock as blood began to pour from his nose. He staggered past Donut to the base entrance, heedless of the mess he left across the floor. “I’m going to find Sarge!” He turned on his heel and ran.

Donut’s head felt as though it was lifting off his neck. He picked up Wash’s pistol, held it in his hand, feeling the weight of it. The mere feet between him and Wash felt like miles, but he made it there eventually.

Donut pressed the muzzle of the pistol to Wash’s skull, just behind his ear. The blood was pounding in his head, his own heartbeat deafening him. But he couldn’t force his finger to the trigger. He couldn’t do this. He felt cheated, and another wave of sick rage flooded him.

He pulled back his hand and pistol-whipped Wash as hard as he could, sending him sprawling sideways. Wash caught himself on his elbows before he would have hit his head on the base floor, and slowly pushed himself back up, rose back up on his knees. Donut struck again and Wash went right over this time. A low groan was cut off as he moved again, clawing his way back on all fours, then back to his knees, his body shaking and threatening to pitch over. Blotches were invading Donut’s vision. He put the last of his strength into a final blow. Wash collapsed and this time he stayed down, still and silent. The next second Donut was down too, on his hands and knees, vomiting over the floor. He hadn’t finished retching when he lost his balance and tipped over, ending up back to back on the ground with Wash.

There was a pounding of armoured feet, and garbled voices. In a distant sort of way he registered how they went to Agent Washington first. Donut closed his eyes and felt tears running out of him, and with them went his rage, leaving only crippling pain and confusion. He laid, still retching, feeling Wash warm against his back.


End file.
